


Rudimentary Care of the B. Splendens for the Uninitiated

by suburbanmotel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys Kissing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pet Care, Pining, Protective Derek, Rutting, Sharing a Bed, Touching, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 12:11:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16534322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suburbanmotel/pseuds/suburbanmotel
Summary: I don’t know what to do with you.Or:Stiles has a pet fish. Who knew.





	Rudimentary Care of the B. Splendens for the Uninitiated

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a little break from my regularly scheduled angst to attempt something a bit lighter.
> 
> Except I kind of failed, as usual. Otherwise known as, Angst: Don’t ~~leave home~~ write fanfic without it.

//

It’s 10 in the morning on a Saturday and Stiles is standing at Derek’s front door cradling a glass bowl in his hands. The bowl is clear and orb-like, filled with slightly cloudy looking water. The bottom is covered in multi-coloured pebbles not found anywhere in nature, and there’s one sad, plastic piece of fern-like greenery sticking straight up in the middle. Oh, and there’s a fish. There’s a strangely bright blue and red fish swimming around lazily like fish tend to do. Derek is a lot less surprised than he should be.

“I need a…favour.” Stiles says this like it physically hurts him to ask, like the words are being wrenched from his throat with a blunt, rusty pair of pliers. He might be sweating.

Derek crosses his impressive arms impressively. He tilts his head. He waits.

“I need you to…babysit.” Stiles’ face goes red and he coughs. “Pet sit. _Fish_ sit. Jesus. Ugh.” He shifts nervously, foot to foot, and the water sloshes over the rim of the bowl a bit. He sounds disgusted with himself as he rambles on. Why is this so hard? This shouldn’t be so hard. It takes all his willpower to not just turn around and leave. “My dad is insisting I go with him to visit Aunt Gloria for the weekend and I can’t leave Der— my fish. My fish needs to eat, right? He needs sustenance and also people don’t think fish need company but they _do_ and I talk to him, ok? I talk to him like every day, so he’s used to that and he needs company while I’m gone and well.”

They both stare down at the bowl. The fish swims. Neither one speaks for a minute. The fish keeps swimming. Stiles takes a deep, fortifying breath.

“I mean, you don’t _have_ to, obviously. It’s just we’re leaving in like an hour and if you can’t, or won’t, just say so and I’ll.” He stops.

“You’ll what?” Derek holds himself very still. He’s actually interested in the answer.

“Well, I guess I could take him, it, with me. Might be a bit difficult, but I can manage, I think. Put some plastic wrap over the top to avoid like, leakage. He might enjoy it, too. He doesn’t get out much.” Stiles looks at Derek. “But I think he’d have more fun here. With you.” And he does that lopsided _grin._

Derek tamps down the completely irrational swell of warmth that floods his chest because it’s stupid. There must be a plausible reason why Stiles is doing this. “Ask Scott.” This is what comes out of his mouth. He’s such an asshole sometimes. He _wants_ to look after Stiles’ fish. He doesn’t know why exactly, but he does. Fuck.

“I can’t ask Scott.” Stiles’ cheeks are turning a truly fascinating shade of plum.

“Ok, so ask—”

“Or Allison or Lydia. Or Jackson, fuck. Jackson might _eat_ him. Who knows, right?”

Derek shrugs like, _yeah, true_. “Why?”

“Why what?” Stiles sighs very deeply, like he knows why what exactly but is hoping he doesn’t have to actually answer.

“Why can’t you ask them? And why are you asking _me_?”

Stiles steels himself, like what he’s about to say might get him ridiculed. Or punched. He speaks very quickly. “I don’t trust anyone else, ok? Scott and Allison are like, you know, boning every spare minute of the day, and Lydia is, Lydia — probably can’t stand the _smell_ — and Jackson, yeah, unknown there, and I _like_ Der— my fish. I’ve never had a pet before. My.” He pauses. He’s talking even faster, if that’s possible. “My mom was super allergic to everything so I never had a cat or dog growing up, which is totally understandable and fine and everything. And then she got sick so a pet was like out of the question. So I just never thought about getting anything uh after. And gerbils and hamsters are nocturnal and reptiles just don’t do it for me and a few weeks ago I was at the pet store because I just _do_ that sometimes and I saw these fish and I talked to the guy and he said it’s a good _starter pet_ and I’m like a _starter owner_ and I dunno. It was like this spur of the moment decision and yeah. I just want someone to look after him. Properly.” He pauses and exhales, a long, shallow breath. “If you don’t want to, just say it ok? It’s not a big deal. I can totally just bring him in the car. It’s fine. I just thought you’re probably not _doing_ anything—”

“Why, because I have no _social_ life?” Derek feels both elated and dismayed and as usual, Stiles continues to catch him off guard.

Stiles starts. “Well, no. It’s just. You know. I don’t _know_ what you do in your spare time, but yeah. I thought if you were around for the weekend and you’re, you know, _older_ and maybe more responsible than the rest of us and maybe you could just make sure he was fed and even talked to, once in a while, that would be ok, and jeez, I don’t know, maybe you have a date. Do you have a date, Derek? Because if you do, or if you’re like, going out of town or something, that’s totally cool, and understandable, and like I said, I can bring him—”

“Breathe, Stiles,” Derek says.

Stiles breathes, raggedly.

“I’ll do it,” Derek says.

Stiles’ whole face lights up and Derek feels like a gigantic jerk.

“Really?” Stiles says.

Derek rolls his eyes and clenches his hands at his sides so he doesn’t do something stupid like hug him. Or punch him.

“That is awesome, dude. Thanks. Thank you. I gotta go. I still have some other shit to get done and I have to pack some clothes and download some music and I need snacks for the road and—”

“Just go. It’s fine.” Derek holds out his hands like an idiot and Stiles places the bowl in them very carefully. It’s heavy and the glass is smooth and cool to the touch. Stiles reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small tube. “This is his food. You just need to sprinkle a little bit on top of the water once a day. Ok? Like, he doesn’t need much. Don’t give him too much.”

“It’s a fish.” Derek stares at him. “I think I can manage for two days.”

“Yeah. Yeah. True but still. You know.” Derek doesn’t know. “I’ll come by tomorrow night. Might be late. Is that ok?”

“Yes. Whatever.”

Stiles leans over and taps gently on the side of the bowl. He sucks in his cheeks and makes a ridiculous kissy fish mouth with his ridiculous lips, then realizes Derek is watching and blushes.

“I talk to him. A lot.” This is said quietly, almost as an afterthought. Almost like he’s embarrassed. Also, almost like it’s a question. Or a suggestion. “He likes it.”

Derek doesn’t know what to say. There are so very many things he _wants_ to say but he can’t pluck just one from the list because his tongue feels suddenly very fat and useless so he says nothing.

Stiles straightens and gathers himself. “Ok then. Well. Thanks. Again. Really. I really appreci—”

“ _Go_.”

Stiles yanks the door open and stands on the threshold, quivering, undecided, halfway in and halfway out.

“Ok. Well. Ok. Have fun, you two. And just. Uh. Don’t.” Stiles laughs like it’s a joke but it doesn’t feel very funny. “Don’t kill my fish. Ha ha.”

 

//

 

Derek kills the fish.

Ha. Ha.

After Stiles _finally_ leaves, Derek sets the bowl very carefully on the table near the biggest window because maybe fish like a nice view. Who knows. Derek knows nothing about fish except that he prefers his salmon with dill sauce. He stands there for a moment, watching. The fish is actually really kind of cool looking, a vibrant red and blue with long, elegant fins that gently quiver in the water. It’s very peaceful, standing there, watching Stiles’ pet fish swim around in its little glass bowl with the fake green plastic plant and the weird coloured pebbles.

It likes company, Stiles had said. He talks to it, Stiles had said. Derek moves closer.

_I talk to him. A lot._

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he says. Then he says,

“Hey, fish.” He says this over the top of the bowl so the fish has a better chance of hearing him. He feels stupid but whatever. It’s not the first nor the last time. Not by a long shot. “I’m Derek. I’ll be looking after you for a bit. So. Hi.”

The fish swims.

“Ooh pretty.” Erica has sidled up beside him.

“Yeah.”

They stare at the fish in the bowl on the table.

Erica looks at him. “So, what’s going on?”

Derek frowns. “Nothing’s going on. I’m…pet sitting.”

“Ok.” Erica moves closer and peers into the bowl. “For who?”

“Did you get a fish?” Now Boyd is here too. Terrific.

“No,” says Derek. “I’m just—”

“He’s babysitting!” Erica says and laughs. Hilarious. Derek tries to not rolls his eyes.

“It’s a fish not a baby—”

“Still—”

“Still nothing. I’m just. Helping.”

“Helping who?” Boyd slides an arm around Erica’s waist and glances at Derek. It looks like he already knows but there’s no way he can know anything. Not that there’s anything to know anyway. This is hard and stupid. Derek clenches his fists and bites the insides of his cheeks.

“Stiles.”

“Ah.” It’s an innocent noise but Derek feels hot and weirdly guilty anyway. He sees how Erica and Boyd look at one another and how they kind of smirk and nod and glance at him and then back at the fucking fish and he digs his nails into his palms and sighs.

“Yeah. I’m helping because he told me he doesn’t trust anyone else so if you’re proud of that good for you.”

“Well, maybe he just thinks you’re like really good at looking after helpless creatures or something,” Boyd says. Again it all sounds innocent but the _way_ he says it.

“Ok.” Derek sets the fish food on the table next to the bowl and starts to walk away. Not fast enough though because Erica gets in the parting shot, as always.

“Or maybe he just likes you best.”

 

//

 

When it’s dark and he’s going to bed Derek picks up the bowl and brings it with him to his bedroom. He places the bowl very carefully on his bedside table and after he’s brushed his teeth and changed into his pajamas he lies down on his bed and stares at the fish.

_I talk to him. A lot._

“Hi fish,” he says. The fish swims. Derek shifts and moves in his bed. He can’t get comfortable. He turns back and forth and finally ends up on his side so he’s facing the fish in its bowl. He sighs. He wonders if fish sleep. He doesn’t think they do but he’s not sure. They must. Fish must sleep. Every living thing sleeps. He thinks about Googling it but then thinks that’s stupid.

He sighs and picks up his phone.

_The simple answer is yes! They can sleep at any time during the day or night. Fish do sleep with their eyes open, because they don’t have eyelids (except for some sharks) to close! Fish sleep is not exactly like human sleep, though. For fish, sleep is more like a resting period similar to a daydream that humans might experience._

Derek puts his phone down and looks at the fish. He thinks about Stiles. No. No he doesn’t. He stops thinking about Stiles. He thinks about what Stiles _said_.

_I talk to him. A lot._

Derek shifts and tries to get comfortable. The fish swims.

“Did you have a good day?”

“What do you think about?”

“Are you sleeping right now? Because honestly, it’s kind of hard for me to tell.”

“I mean, your eyes are open. But according to _research_ you could be sleeping.”

“Do you miss Stiles?”

“I don’t.”

“You probably miss his voice, though, because he never stops fucking talking.”

“Sorry. For swearing, I mean.”

“Don’t you get bored in there?”

“Is this cruel? Keeping fish in a tiny bowl like this?”

“What does Stiles talk to you about, anyway? I mean, he talks. A lot. He never shuts up. So he must tell you a lot of shit, right? Man. I’d love to know what he’s told you. No wait. I don’t. Why would I care? But honestly. What could he be telling a fish? Are you like his secret diary? Does he confide in you? Jesus. What am I even doing.”

Derek sighs and turns over. This is stupid.

The fish swims. Or sleeps. Who the hell even knows. Derek shoves his face into his pillow. He sighs.

“Do you think Stiles is cute?”

“Do you think Stiles is as cute as I do?”

“I mean, I don’t think he’s _cute_. Well yes. I do. He’s cute. Whatever. He’s funny. He’s stupid and loud and funny and he cares too much about everything and he’s hot as fuck.”

“Don’t tell him I said that.”

“Oh my god.”

“Ok look I didn’t have any pets growing up because _werewolves_. Wolves and small domestic pets don’t really go together if you know what I mean. But it was fine. I never really thought much about it, to be honest. It would have been nice, I guess, to have a dog or a cat. Or a guinea pig. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll get one now. I mean, Stiles said fish are starter pets and he’s a starter owner and I guess I am too. We’ll see how this weekend goes, right?”

The fish swims. Derek sighs.

“And Stiles is just. He’s. Well. He’s smart right. And he’s resourceful. And he’s kind. I guess that’s right word. He’s kind and he’s a good friend. And he’s smart. I said that already, right? Ok. He’s smart! And he’s really attractive. To me at least. I mean some people wouldn’t find him attractive I guess. But I do. And that’s what matters. That’s what matter to who? Whom. To whom? Fuck. I don’t know. He’s cute as fuck. That’s all I know and I don’t care anymore because—”

His phone pings. Derek startles but he knows who it is without checking because this is his life and yeah but he checks anyway.

Stiles: hey just checking in hope everything is ok thanks again for looking after my fish

Stiles: It’s just like super boring here and my dad is already asleep and I think Aunt Gloria is playing online poker and the wifi sucks because this house is like a million years old

Stiles: I’m not like checking up on YOU. Or the fish or anything

Stiles: I’m sure everything is fine

Stiles: So everything is fine right? You’re fine? And the fish. Everything is good?

Stiles: Anyway thanks for everything. I do appreciate and it means a lot to me even if I haven’t told you personally so thanks I asked you specifically for a reason so I want to thank you specifically and if that upsets you I’m sorry but thank you so anyway I hope my fish is ok and I’m really tired and I’m going to go to sleep now so I’ll text you tomorrow ok

Derek stares at the messages. Then he points his phone at the fish bowl and he takes a photo. He manages to get his thumb in the photo, pointing up. He sends it to Stiles.

Stiles: …

His phone rings. Derek groans.

“What.”

“I just wanted you to know I believed you. I totally believed you. You didn’t have to do that. But it’s cool. Thanks.”

“It’s fine.”

“He looks happy.”

Derek laughs in spite of himself. “You can tell?”

“Yeah. Yeah I can. He and I are like well acquainted. Buddies. Fish can get sick you know. And sad. So yeah. Right now I’d say he looks pretty damn content.”

Derek relaxes and smiles in spite of himself. “Well. I am a pretty damn good pet sitter.”

Stiles laughs. Derek realizes this is the first time they’ve ever spoken on the phone. It’s weird. In a nice way.

“Well, that _is_ why I asked you. Only the best for Der— the fish.”

“Oh.” Derek feels his face getting warm. He closes his eyes and shakes his head. He should hang up. He doesn’t want to hang up.

“Ok. Well. Anyway.” Derek can hear Stiles breathing on the other end. He doesn’t know how he feels about that. “Tomorrow night, like I said.”

“Ok.” Derek pauses. How does one end a calm and civilized phone conversation with Stiles? Usually when they’re communicating it’s through texts in the middle of imminent disaster and runs along the lines of HELP WERE GONAN DIEEEEE OUT PASST PRESERVE HURRRYYHS

“Well, good night.” Stiles says this very quietly, almost tentatively and Derek swears he can hear his heartbeat stutter all those miles away. Stupid.

“Yeah. You too.”

He still can’t do it, mainly because he can still hear Stiles breathing and he’s kind of become very quickly addicted to that sound.

“Derek?” Stiles says.

“Yeah?”

“Oh.” Stiles laughs a bit. “Wasn’t sure if you were still here. Another pause. “This is kind of nice, huh? Just…talking. About. Nothing.”

Derek swallows so loudly his throat clicks. He can’t speak. The silence spins out. He can still hear Stiles breathing.

“Ok. Good night, Derek.”

Derek opens his mouth to reply but then hits the end call button instead and thinks he hears a split second of Stiles saying something else but he can’t be sure. Fuck.

He puts his phone down and rolls over about 11 times trying to get comfortable. He finally settles on his side facing the fish. It’s dark and Derek can just barely make out its shape as it hovers, quivering. He wonders if it’s sleeping now.

“Do fish dream?” he whispers.

“What would they dream about?”

“You wanna know what I dream about?”

He thinks about putting it into words but they don’t come and he doesn’t finish because he falls asleep.

The fish sleeps, too.

Its eyes are wide open.

 

//

 

Sundays are generally reserved for household chores and relaxing and hanging with pack. Today Derek rises early, showers and makes breakfast for anyone who wants it. He places the fish in its newly designated spot in the middle of the big table by the front window. He carefully taps in a small amount of food (Is it too much? Not enough? How is he supposed to know? Should he text Stiles to ask? No. Definitely not.) and watches, vaguely mesmerized as it swims to the surface and swallows the little pellets with its little gaping mouth.

“Doing a good job there, Derek.” Boyd claps him on the shoulder. “You could start a side business.” His voice is warm and teasing and Derek shakes his head and lets himself be teased a little.

“Stiles is going to be so happy with you.” This is Isaac and while Derek listens for sarcasm, for anything even vaguely taunting or unkind, he can’t hear anything.

He can _hear_ Erica smirking. “Stiles is _always_ happy with it comes to Der—”

Derek needs to work on his car. Now.

He pulls on his oldest coat and slams his feet into boots and stomps outside, studiously ignoring the choked back laughter behind him. He loses himself for several hours in the general care and ongoing maintenance of the car, determined to not think about anything other than the late autumn sun on his back and metal and grease under his fingers.

When he comes back inside it’s late morning and warmer than expected and the sun is full and bright. He slips off his coat and boots and stretches, relishing every pop of his spine. He thinks about lunch, about what the pack might like. Grilled cheese? Egg salad? Wild venison stalked and killed in the preserve? When he passes by the table on his way to the kitchen he sees the fish bowl is now sitting in full, direct sunlight and his heart stutters. That can’t be good, can it? Can fish tolerate sun beaming right through the glass like that? The fish has nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Has the water gotten too hot?

He quickly but oh so carefully picks up the bowl, forgetting his hands are still slick with engine grease. He picks up the bowl so very carefully and he knows it’s going to happen before he can fully react and he watches the entire tragedy unfold in super horrific slow motion. The smooth, slick glass slips easily and quickly between his hands and falls, straight down, hitting the floor with a tremendous splosh and crash. The smash of glass reverberates in his ears like a thousand tiny screams of guilt and shame and failure. Small, unnaturally coloured pebbles fly everywhere, and water soaks his socks and the bottoms of his jeans and the fish skitters away, across the floor, disappearing under the bookshelf against the far wall.

Derek just stands there. He has survived hundreds of emotional and physical attacks from mythical and not so mythical creatures over the past few years but for the first time he understands what actual shock feels like. He can’t move. He can’t think. He can’t actually process what has just happened. He might make a sound like a howl. A very small, pitiful howl.

He has no idea how much time has passed before Erica comes skidding into the room. Seconds? Minutes? Years?

“Did I hear something break—”

She stops, takes in the carnage, claps her hands over her mouth. The water and broken glass. The coloured pebbles spread across the floor. The absent fish. Derek can’t even look at her.

“Oh. Oh no. Was that.”

Derek just nods. He can’t even speak. He’s just standing there like the oft-mimicked mime, his hands in front of him cupped around a no longer existent fish bowl.

“Uh oh,” she says.

Uh oh? _Uh oh_?

“Where’s um. Stiles’ fish?” Erica says.

Oh _fuck_. Derek springs into action, leaping across the room in two strides and slamming down on his chest, jamming his arm under the small opening beneath the bookcase. He gropes frantically, patting and moving his hand around, not knowing what he’ll find but hoping he finds something.

He finds something.

“Oh no.” Erica is looking over his shoulder. Derek is kneeling on the floor holding the dead fish in the palm of his hand. He presses down very gently on its body with the very tip of his finger, right where he thinks its heart might be, once, twice, again.

“Get me a cup of water. Hurry,” he says.

When she returns Derek slides the fish into the cup. It sinks. Then it floats. Then it does nothing. He might cry.

“Derek. It’s ok. It was an accident. Stiles will understand. Accidents happen.”

Derek just sits there, holding the cup and staring at the dead fish and trying not to cry.

Erica very gently pries the cup with the dead fish out of his hand. “Derek,” she says.

He looks at her.

“Your feet are bleeding.”

 

//

 

Boyd sweeps up all the glass and stones and Isaac mops the blood and dries the floor and Erica and Derek hold a makeshift fish funeral in the bathroom.

Derek watches the blue and red spiral quickly and finally and forever down the toilet and his sadness and shock is suddenly replaced by a gut-wrenching panic.

“What am I going to do?” he says.

Erica looks at him. “What do you mean?” She motions towards the toilet bowl. “It’s kinda already been resolved.”

Derek shakes his head. “No. I. I have to fix this. I can fix this.” He pauses. “Right?”

“Well, if you mean going out and buying him a new fish, then yes. You can fix it, if that’s what you _mean_. There are a couple of pretty good pet stores around. There’s Frankie’s Fish World downtown, but if you mean something else—”

Derek is already shaking his head. “No no I mean. Yes. Of course. Yes I’m going to replace everything, but I don’t want him to know. He can’t know. Stiles _cannot know_ I killed his fish, do you understand? You can’t tell him. No one can tell him.”

Erica looks at him. He looks a bit crazed.

“Um,” she says. “You mean you want to hand him a different fish tonight and pretend it’s the same fish he dropped off yesterday? Is that what you’re proposing?”

Derek nods a bit jerkily. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m proposing.”

“So, you’re going to lie.”

“I’m absolutely going to lie. Yes.”

Erica cocks her head. “Ok. But why? Why don’t you just tell him what happened? Tell him it was an accident and that you went out and got a new fish and bowl and you’re, I don’t know, _sorry_?”

Derek looks at her like she’s insane. “Are you insane?” he says.

Derek checks his watch. It’s now after 2 p.m. Stiles said Sunday night, but he didn’t specify a time. He said it could be late. Late could be seven and late could be midnight, because it’s Stiles. Derek runs from the bathroom. He grabs his coat and shoes and keys and is in the car and peeling out of the drive towards all the pet stores within a 50-mile radius of Beacon Hills to find the exact right fish because he’s going to fix this. He’s going fix this and he’s also going to lie for Stiles because he can’t let Stiles know what happened because it’s _Stiles_ and Derek still hasn’t really figured out the significance behind that yet.

But he will.

 

//

 

“I need a fish that looks like this.” Derek pulls out his phone and shoves it into the clerk’s face. The clerk pulls back and squints.

“Uh. That’s a pretty dark photo.” The clerk squints again. “And there’s a big thumb in the way.”

Derek looks at it. Fuck. It is dark. And there’s his big thumb. “It’s blue and red.”

“Is it a betta?” The clerk is already walking towards a display, rows and rows of colourful, quivering fish contained in cups of water.

For a moment Derek is very confused. A _beta?_

“I. I don’t know?” Derek stands in front of the fish, staring. “It was a _fish_. Blue and red,” he says again. He sounds like an idiot. “It was about this big.” He cups his hand, points to the palm.

The clerk, who looks to be about 12, makes a surprisingly sympathetic face. “Your kid’s fish die? You kill your kid’s fish?” Derek stares, mouth slightly open. “Happens a lot, man. Like, three or four times a month. Dead fish. Frantic parent. Replacement model required asap.” The clerk — James, according to the nametag Derek has just noticed — starts examining the fish with him. “Ok. We got this. Blue and red.”

Derek nods. “I need. I need a bowl, too.” His voice cracks. “And the uh stones. Pebbles. For the bottom. And uh. The plant thing.” Because Boyd swept it up and threw it out before Derek could stop him.

“The plant thing.” James sighs. “Jeez, dude. You really did a number.” He reaches out and _pats Derek’s arm._. “Ok. Fish first, ok? We’ll start with the fish and go from there. You need to focus though, ok?” His voice goes serious. “Can you focus?”

Derek nods. He can focus. He can focus for Stiles.

 

//

 

Almost an hour and a half later, Derek stumbles out of Frankie’s Fish World with a fish and a bowl and pebbles and a plant thing and most of his sanity intact. He’d sent 14 — 14! — photos to Erica of different fish under different lighting before he was satisfied he was picking the closest replica. He’s also still convinced the bowl is just slightly smaller than the original, and the stones are going to be brighter because they’re newer and the plant thing looks taller but at this point even James is losing patience with him — “Uh. Just how attached was your kid to this fish?” — and Derek just needs to make some decisions.

Now the fish is in the front seat in its plastic, water-filled bag and everything else is settled on the floor and Derek is speeding towards home hoping against hope that Stiles won’t show up before he gets there.

But what if he does? What then?

Derek is sweating and his heart is racing and his hands are slipping on the steering wheel and and and —

And what the fuck is he doing? If this was anyone else’s fish he’d been looking after, Erica’s or Boyd’s, Isaac’s or god, Scott’s, Derek would have just sighed and rolled his eyes and cleaned up the mess — and grumbled about the mess — and sent a terse text explaining what had happened. Maybe _maybe_ he would have apologized. Offered to replace it, of course. He’s not heartless, despite what some people think. He would have felt bad but still. It’s a goddamn _fish_. It’s not like they have personalities. It’s not like you get _attached_ or anything.

So what is _this_ , then? He willingly forces his heart rate to slow, but it’s not going well. He can feel a fine sheen of sweat across his forehead and his chest is tight and his skin feels prickly. He eyesight keeps doubling as he drives and he has to shake his head to clear it.

He wonders if this is what a panic attack feels like. Stiles has had panic attacks. Maybe he should text him to ask. No. Then he wonders why he’s having a panic attack over a fish. It’s just a fish for fuck’s sake. He’s halfway home before he clues in. He catches a glimpse of his widened, slightly frantic expression in the rear view mirror and it hits him like a sledgehammer to the chest.

Oh.

_Oh._

It’s _not_ just a fish. It’s _Stiles’_ fish. And it’s

_I need a favour_

And

_I don’t trust anyone else, ok?_

And

_I think he’d have more fun here. With you_

And

_Good night, Derek_

And

_I talk to him. A lot_

And

_You wanna know what I dream about?_

And then it’s all

_It was just an accident_

And

_Stiles is smart and kind and a good friend and really attractive and fucking hot and kind and good and smart_

And

_Derek—_

_Yes?_

_Your feet are bleeding_

Stiles asked him to look after his fish and Derek failed spectacularly and he killed Stiles’ pet fish and now he feels like his heart is trying to climb up his throat and he’s sweaty and cold at the same time and he can’t quite catch his breath and it’s not about the fish at all it’s about _Stiles_ and—

And

And he’s so fucked.

 

//

 

The knock comes at 10:37 that night. Derek has had everything set and ready to go since 6:40 and has pretty much been sitting around or pacing or chewing his nails ever since, even though both Boyd and Erica have assured him numerous times that the bowl/fish/pebbles/plant thing all look EXACTLY THE SAME as the one Stiles handed off to him.

Derek remains unconvinced.

When the tentative knock comes everyone quickly and conveniently scatters and Derek sucks in a huge breath and forces his heartrate to slow (somewhere behind him Boyd laughs) and walks to the door oh so casually and opens it oh so slowly like he has no clue who might be on the other side.

And oh look there’s Stiles. And he’s beautiful and rumpled and excited and cute and hopeful and kind and friendly and smart and so fucking hot and Derek just stands there, staring, until Stiles steps in and looks around.

“Sorry it’s late, dude.”

Derek just nods and kind of moves back to accommodate him. Stiles looks around like he’s expecting a lot of people to be there but there’s no one except Derek and the fish.

“So—” Stiles begins like it’s going to be a whole _thing_ like he’s going to hang out and shoot the shit or something but Derek just picks up the bowl with shaking hands and comes at Stiles like ready or not.

Stiles holds out his hands ceremoniously and Derek places the bowl in them, hands quivering slightly. He tucks the food tube into Stiles’ coat pocket then backs away and waits and waits. Stiles bends a bit and peers into the bowl. He makes the ridiculous kissy mouth lips with his ridiculous lips and pauses and then looks up at Derek.

Derek waits, eyes wide. Everyone in the entire house around him holds their breath.

“Thanks. Really. I really appreciate it. I’m sorry if I interrupted some hot date weekend or something.” He bites his lip after and waits for Derek to say something.

Derek swallows so hard it hurts. “I said I’d do it. I did it. Clearly.”

Then he kind of ushers Stiles out the door and closes it.

Then he lets his head fall heavily against the wall.

He finally lets himself cry.

Just a little.

 

//

 

He catches Stiles looking at him the next few times he sees him, a pack meetings, after they’ve tracked down a witch and stand panting at the forest’s edge, as he lounges on the front porch while the betas flip and fight in the front yard. His skin will prickle and he’ll turn around and Stiles is _looking_ at him and it’s an expression Derek cannot for the life of him decipher. It’s serious and curious and knowing and something that almost resembles _fond_ if Derek didn’t know better. It throws him for a loop every time and he has to look away fast.

 

//

 

In the end it’s the guilt that does him in.

“This is stupid,” he says to himself as he drives across town late Friday night in the pouring rain. It’s too late to be doing this, and too wet, but he can’t sleep, hasn’t slept well since it happened, and he’s convinced he’ll never sleep well again at this rate.

“This is so stupid,” he mutters under his breath as he scales the outside of the Stilinski house in the rain and perches for a moment outside a certain bedroom window. The small bedside light is on, of course, even though it’s after midnight. He can hear Stiles’ heartbeat, can hear him moving around, humming softly to himself, the scrape of pencil and the tap of the keyboard. Derek takes a huge, shaky breath, wipes his palms on his wet jeans.

“This is so fucking _stupid_ ,” he says. He moves to push open the window but at the last second doesn’t. He stops and waits and sits outside the window in the rain for another hour until Stiles has fallen asleep. Only then does he push his way inside, falling rather ungracefully on wobbly legs.

The room is silent except for Stiles’ steady gentle breathing. Derek stands there watching him, water dripping from his saturated clothing all over the floor beneath his feet. He has a sudden visceral flashback to the moment he dropped the bowl but he shakes it away. The bowl in question, the replacement, is sitting innocuously on Stiles’ bedside table, near where Derek is standing like an idiot. Derek sits down, resting his back against the wall and looks at the fish.

“Are you sleeping?” he whispers. “I never did figure that out. Is Stiles talking to you regularly? He probably is, just like before. Maybe it’s helpful, having something to talk to that doesn’t talk back, doesn’t judge or rolls its eyes or call you a moron for making another bad decision, another idiotic mistake. Maybe this is what I’ve needed all along. Who knows. Anyway. You’re lucky to have Stiles. He’s. He’s a good person. Which is why I’m here, I guess, in the middle of the night in the rain soaking wet—

“Do you need a towel?” Stiles says and Derek jumps.

Stiles is awake. Of course he is. Someone is sitting in his bedroom talking to his fish in the middle of the night. He doesn’t look surprised. He’s just watching Derek in the dark, waiting for his answer.

“Uh.”

Stiles nods and gets up, comes back with a big bath towel. He hands it to Derek, who wipes off his wet face and hair a bit, attempts to mop up the large puddle on the floor.

Stiles perches on the edge of his bed. He smells like anticipation and excitement and nervousness and some kind of weird triumph. Derek swallows and tries very hard to be brave.

“I dropped the fish.”

Stiles just nods. Derek can hear his heartbeat thudding, fast slow fast slow. Stiles keeps nodding.

“Well?” Derek says finally. “Did you hear me? Your fish. I dropped it. I dropped the whole fucking bowl and it smashed and the fish died. So I went out and replaced everything and I didn’t tell you. I just pretended it never happened and I gave you a new bowl and new fish and sent you on your way like nothing happened.” He stops. He realizes his heart is pounding. “What do you have to say about that?”

“I have to say that’s pretty impressive,” is what Stiles says.

“What…what is impressive?” Derek frowns.

“Well, that only took you six days to come clean. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you for at least two more weeks.” He pauses. “If ever, actually.”

They stare at each other. The fish swims.

“You knew?” Derek says. “You knew the whole time?”

Stiles straightens up and flaps his arms a few times. “Of course I knew! Jesus. I’m not stupid. I mean. You did a pretty fucking admirable job. The bowl, the pebbles, the fern the _fish_. But Derek Number One was bigger, and more red than blue, and his fins were longer and more swishy and the water wasn’t clean, I know that. I mean. I’d meant to clean the water before but I didn’t and yeah maybe I’m not as great a pet owner as I thought but still I tried—”

“Derek Number _One_?” Derek says. He hasn’t moved from his spot.

Stiles stops and sighs and deflates. “Yeah man. The fucking fish you murdered was named Derek. I named my fish Derek ok? Kill me. I know. It’s. It’s whatever. That was his name.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why, Stiles, did you name your fucking fish Derek?”

“Because he was a betta.”

“I bought you a betta.” Derek frowns. “James said it was probably a betta so I replaced it with one.”

“James?”

Derek sighs. He lets his head fall back against the wall. He’s suddenly, overwhelmingly exhausted. He should get up. He should go home. He should erase this entire tragic episode from his life.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” Stiles says just as Derek is about to move.

“What?” Derek’s heart thuds.

“You like me,” Stiles says. He crosses his arms. His voice sounds shaky. It sounds like a dare. Derek just stares at him.

“What?”

“You _like_ me. You like me and you did all this—” his arms sweep around the room, supposedly taking in the bowl and fish and pebbles and then Derek – “because you care. You care Derek. You killed Der—” he stops. “You killed my fish and you felt bad so you went out and replaced everything so closely you hoped I wouldn’t notice. You didn’t tell me because you felt bad. You could have just said hey fuck you Stiles. I dropped the fish and the fish died and sorry not sorry or whatever. There are a lot of shitty things you could have done. It was an accident. I mean, I’m assuming it was an accident? You didn’t like flush him down the toilet or something?”

Derek flinches and frowns and Stiles sighs. “I mean while he was still alive.”

“No!” Derek closes his eyes. “It was an accident.” A horrible horrible accident.

“Of course it was an accident. And you felt bad because you’re a good guy, a good person, and you went out and tried to fix it. Not sure it was the best way of fixing it but it’s ok.”

Derek swallows. “I really am sorry—”

“You like me,” Stiles says again. Then, more unsure, shyly, “Right?”

Derek caves. He nods. “Yeah,” he whispers, because why the fuck not. How much worse can his mortification get? “I like you.” He closes his eyes and keeps them closed, even as he hears Stiles get off his bed, move to him, kneel down in front of him.

“Good. Because I like you, too.”

Stiles leans over then and kisses Derek. He presses his lips to Derek’s and they’re soft and dry and taste like nerves and uncertainty, but a lot like honesty, too.

“Come on,” Stiles says quietly. He stands and pulls Derek up with him. Derek stands and is swaying on his feet and he must be tired because he lets Stiles just do what he’s doing, which is undress him. Stiles pulls off Derek’s wet jacket, followed by his shirt (Lift your arms. Just lift them!), and lets them fall to the floor with a plop. Derek doesn’t miss Stiles’ quick intake of breath as his fingers skitter over Derek’s clammy wet skin. Stiles unbuttons Derek’s jeans, warm fingers resting nervously on his hips. He feels Stiles’ eyes on him, waiting for him to tell him to stop. Derek doesn’t tell him to stop. Stiles nods and starts pushing his wet jeans down with some effort. Everything is wet and sticking to his skin.

“Shit,” Stiles says when he realizes Derek still has his shoes on. He kneels down, starts working at the laces with careful intent. Derek rests a hand on the top of Stiles’ head for balance, fingers in his soft hair as he lifts his feet one at a time, lets Stiles work his shoes and then his socks off. It takes time and considerable effort and Derek doesn’t really help but he doesn’t tell Stiles to stop. The jeans make it down over his calves, over his feet, join the rest of his clothes with a solid splat. Derek is standing there in Stiles’ bedroom in the middle of the night in his underwear while rain beats against the window and the fish swims. Stiles sucks in a breath, fingers hovering around Derek’s hips again.

“These are wet, too,” he says, unnecessarily. Derek just nods, because yeah, they are.

Stiles puts shaky hands on Derek’s waist and pulls Derek’s boxers down, sliding them over his hips, down his thighs, off his feet. Derek is standing there in Stiles’ bedroom in the middle of the night completely naked while rain beats against the window and the fish swims. Stiles sucks in another breath. He picks up the slightly damp bath towel and starts drying Derek. First he rubs his hair gently and then works his way down, over his face, his neck, arms and chest. He moves around and rubs the towel over Derek’s back. There’s a hesitation and then a resolution as Stiles dries his ass, then the backs of his legs, around to the front and back up, calves and thighs, before coming to a sudden, jolting halt.

Derek is hard. Of course he is, but he knows Stiles is, too, he can see it and he can smell it, so maybe it’s not too embarrassing. Derek blinks and exhales.

“I don’t know what to do with you, either.”

“Whatever you want.” Stiles says. Nerves and anxiety and excitement and confidence are rolling off him in waves. Then he falters. “Ok. Maybe not whatever. But you know, within reason. Or maybe a bit outside reason, because I’m pretty open to experimentation of a variety and number of things.” He swallows. “But I mean, for right now, anyway, we can do this.” He pulls Derek towards his bed and down into it. Derek lets him. They lie side by side facing each other, Stiles in his pajamas and Derek naked. Stiles reaches out and touches Derek at the base of his throat.

“I named my fish Derek because it was beautiful and it was a betta and it looked lonely, in his little cup at the store,” he says. “But bettas are super tough. And they’re like, solitary. But not because they have bad manners, but because that they don’t like or need the company of other fish,” Stiles says. “But, just because they don’t like other fish as company doesn’t mean they can’t be friends with other animals. They like snails, for instance. The like snails. And shrimp. Oh, and frogs—”

Derek groans and kisses him. He tries to be brave as he slides one hand along the side of Stiles’ jaw and just kisses him, soft at first and then harder, when Stiles’ responds immediately. There are tongues and then some teeth and then Derek is pulling back and panting like he’s been running.

“So, what. You’re my frog, then?”

“Sure. I can be your frog,” Stiles says, fast, voice gone breathy and high. “If you want.”

Derek kisses him again and again and again. He grabs Stiles by his hips and pulls him close, can feel how hard he is through his pajamas against Derek’s skin. Stiles kind of lets out this long moan and Derek pulls him again, harder, sliding one bare thigh between Stiles’ soft pajama pants. Stiles is digging his fingers into Derek’s back so hard it hurts, nails leaving little half-crescent marks in his warming skin. Derek bites at Stiles’ jaw and cheeks and chin and neck and shoulder and lets Stiles rut against him, more and more frantic until he finally clenches and stutters, throwing his head back a bit and mouth going tight and then slack. Derek watches, mesmerized. He can’t take his eyes off him. Then Stiles loosens his grip and smiles and kisses Derek again and reaches down between them to grab Derek’s cock and hold it and that’s all it takes, really, the holding and a few tentative tugs and Stiles’ tongue and mouth before Derek is coming too, which surprises him. Stiles just keeps on surprising him, is the thing.

Stiles makes a face after a bit and peels off his pants and throws them towards the steadily growing pile of wet clothing in the middle of his floor.

“Shirt,” Derek says, half-coherently. “Shirt off too.”

Stiles obliges, working it off and tossing it and then it’s all skin against skin. Stiles pulls his blanket up over them and lets his mouth fall against Derek’s neck and collarbone, mouthing at it softly and wetly.

The rain falls and the fish swims and Derek is brave and tries not to think about anything except the boy in his arms.

When he thinks Stiles is asleep, though, he rolls over and looks at the fish. The fucking fish that started all of this. Stiles’ hand is on his hip, long fingers draped against his stomach, twitching slightly. The fish swims.

“Know what I dream about?” Derek whispers. “This. Right here. This is exactly it.” Stiles startles a bit behind him. He had been dozing but he’s awake now, fingers twitching harder against Derek’s bare skin. The fish waits. He might be sleeping. Derek isn’t sure. Maybe he heard.

Derek smiles.

“I pretended it was you. The fish. That’s why I named it Derek ok. I just. I talked to him. A lot.” This is Stiles speaking. Derek grabs Stiles’ hand in his own, brings it to his mouth and kisses it.

“What did you say?” Derek asks. “What did you say to Derek the fish, before I killed it?”

He feels Stiles’ lips at his back. He’s smiling. Then Stiles opens his beautiful mouth and the words just come pouring out. He tells Derek stories, all sorts of stories, until Derek finally falls asleep.

 

//

 

_I talk to him. A lot._

_He likes it._

 

//


End file.
